


a simple twist of fate

by SugarPill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angst, Blackmail, Blood and Gore, Books, Corporeal Shenanigans, Crowley's love of action movies, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Espionage, Eventual Romance, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Road Trips, Self-Harm, Sensory Overload, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, The power of friendship, What if Crowley didn't fall?, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarPill/pseuds/SugarPill
Summary: After Lucifer and the other rebel angels are cast out of Heaven, Crowley—or the angel Zadkiel, as he's still known—makes a deal to save himself: to secretly spy on his fellow angels and report everything back to Gabriel, in exchange for remaining in Heaven.6,000 years later, Aziraphale is accused of performing unauthorized miracles on Earth, and Zadkiel is sent to investigate. What Zadkiel uncovers will make him question everything, and undo the very fabric of Heaven as they know it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time reader, first time poster in this fandom. As a WIP, tags are subject to change, but I think I got all the big ones. If you have concerns about a particular tag, feel free to ask. 
> 
> This story also owes a debt of inspiration to BuggreAlleThis's excellent [Shifting Heaven and Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20070352/chapters/47533399). This story has a similar premise, but will be very different in execution. 
> 
> Title from the Bob Dylan song [of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sGnhyoP_DSc).

The thing you must understand about the universe is it is not made up of atoms and elements, but of stories.

For God is not a scientist, or a magician, or a gambler playing cards in a dark room. God is a storyteller, you see. The best there is. She breathed life into Adam, and with it came the whispered beginnings of the greatest story ever told, the all-time bestseller, a tale still being spun after 6,000 years of twists and turns and cliffhanger endings. This epic is not the result of a single line of events, unavoidable and predetermined, however. A better analogy would be an impressionist painting, or a constellation of stars; it's all just streaks of color and points of light until you step back. Until someone gives it meaning. Until someone tells you the story.

But this is not that story. Because God did command: no spoilers.

No, this particular story could be considered one of those points of light. Less epic, in the overall scheme of things, but just as important. It has all the things a good story should: drama and deceit, friendship and betrayal, sacrifice and redemption. Thrilling chases and harrowing, last-minute escapes. It's a love story, as all the best stories inevitably are.

Or, more simply: this is the story of two angels, a road trip, and a book.

* * *

It begins with questions.

He always had questions. From the first moment he flashed into existence, a blazing star born of the Almighty's loving will, he was full of them. _Who am I? Where is this? Why?_

The first two are easy enough to answer: he is Zadkiel, Authority and angel of the Lord, presently assigned to cosmic construction, and he is in Heaven.

The third question is harder, as Zadkiel soon learns. He asks everyone.

"Hold still," Hadraniel chides as she preens his wings, plucking out a bent feather and smoothing down the rest.

"Not now!" Barks the Quartermaster, bustling by with an armful of spears.

"Get back to work," his foreman orders, not even looking up from the blueprints for Saturn's rings.

The Archangel Michael simply stares at him coldly before turning away without a word.

Zadkiel even asks God. As an Authority, he doesn't get much personal interaction with the Almighty. But when he does get the opportunity, Zadkiel asks.

A sound like wind chimes and wooden flutes fills the throne room, like water rippling over smooth stones. It's the sound of God laughing, though not unkindly. She gives Zadkiel a puzzle of a non-answer: _y_ _ou must learn this for yourself, my child, for the journey is just as important as the answer itself._ Which is very wise, Zadkiel thinks, but not very helpful. At least God doesn't sound angry; amused, if Zadkiel had to guess. It's always so hard to tell with Her.

Eventually, the other angels tell Zadkiel to stop asking. He's being irritating, distracting. He's making the others uncomfortable. He's being too demanding. A being of faith shouldn't have so many questions.

But Zadkiel can't stop asking, in spite of never receiving an answer that satisfies him. Or maybe because of it. What started out as naive curiosity turns into something else. Something like a hole, like the vast emptiness of space, like darkness, like cold. Something that makes him ache down to the center of his celestial being. Something that grows.

_Why am I here?_

_Why do I feel sadness? Suffering?_

_Why am I different?_

"Why are we not enough?" Lucifer asks the angels surrounding him. "Why does God need to make these lesser creatures when She already has a Heavenly Host of perfect angels? How can She expect us to bow before these beasts, these _humans?_ "

Murmurs of assent ripple through the crowd. Zadkiel doesn't necessarily agree with Lucifer's harsh words. He doesn't resent the newly-made humans, or God for creating them. But Zadkiel is drawn to the questions. Finally, someone else is asking them! Just like him! The doubt and uncertainty of the angels around Zadkiel resonates with the empty place inside him, and for the first time, it doesn't feel so deep, so endless. He doesn't feel so alone.

"And why does God give humanity free will, self determination, all the things we lack?" Lucifer goes on. "All we have ever done is praise Her, worship Her, carry out Her good deeds. And still She denies us!"

The murmurs turn into cheers, and Zadkiel cheers with them. Lucifer parades through the crowd, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, radiating righteousness and glory. He places a hand on Zadkiel's shoulder and squeezes.

"Will you come with us, brother? To demand God answer these questions?"

"Yes," Zadkiel says, basking in Lucifer's golden light. "Yes, I will."

This is before such questions were forbidden. Before they understood the danger they were in.

Before the War.

* * *

Zadkiel tries to keep up with the other rebel angels, but he's never been much of a fighter. He doesn't feel the burning righteousness they feel, or the blazing fury of the Morning Star himself.

Mostly he just feels terrified.

The sky is on fire.

Lightning streaks between the swirling red clouds, thunder echoing like a great and mighty drum. It does nothing to cover the clash of swords and spears, the cries of Zadkiel's brothers and sisters as they plummet to their deaths.

War. Zadkiel thinks there should be another word for it, a better, more terrible word. But there is no word that encompasses the abject terror Zadkiel feels as Heaven's front line descends upon them, or the gut-wrenching horror as he crawls over the broken bodies of his siblings, or the shame, oh, the _shame_ as he hides himself among the dead.

Zadkiel doesn't know how long he crouches there, trembling and choking on the overwhelming stench of charred feathers and death. Time is still new, and so very slow. The War rages for centuries, for eons. Long enough that Zadkiel can no longer remember what they're fighting for, can no longer tell the difference between the angels fighting for Lucifer, and the angels fighting to defend Heaven. They all scream the same, die the same, look the same covered in the golden ichor of celestial wounds.

Surely, nothing is worth this.

A booming thunderclap rends the sky. Zadkiel looks up and sees Michael and the other Archangels descend, the remaining forces of Heaven combined at their backs.

"Lucifer!" Michael commands. "Enough! End this!"

The few remaining rebel angels gather around Lucifer. They stand tall and proud, but it is obvious they are woefully outnumbered. That this is the end.

"Never!" Lucifer roars, and the rebels roar with him.

Zadkiel imagines there is a line of sadness running through the steel of Michael's gaze, that some part of her would give anything to have avoided this. That to destroy part of the Heavenly Host would be like destroying part of herself.

But Zadkiel sees none of this. He only sees coldness in Michael's face, rage and hatred as sharp as ice. She raises her silver sword on high.

"So be it."

Gabriel blows his golden war horn, and with a million cries and wingbeats, the Heavenly Host charges. Lucifer's rebels rise to meet them. The clash is so thunderous it shakes Heaven to the core, and Zadkiel claps his hands over his ears. It's enough to split the sky in two, and it does, a jagged crack running through the clouds.

The final battle rages, and time stretches. Each blow traded is enough to shake Heaven apart, and Zadkiel along with it. It ends when Michael runs Lucifer through with her sword. She keeps going until the hilt hits Lucifer's ribs, until he's screaming and his sides are painted gold.

"Sister," Lucifer gasps.

"I am not your sister," Michael sneers. "You have no kin here. You are an abomination, a corruption in Her eyes. And so I cast you out."

The crack in the sky grows wider and wider until there's nothing but emptiness underneath them, an open hole torn in the very fabric of Heaven itself. It feels _wrong_ , like the hole is a wound in Zadkiel's own celestial being, a wound in all of them. He cries out, an echo among millions of angels wailing in shared anguish.

"You have betrayed God," Michael booms over them all. "And so I cast you out. You will be lower than the humans, lower than the lowest beast. You will never see Heaven again, or feel the Almighty's love. You will be doomed to burn in the deepest pit below for all eternity. _And so I cast you out_."

The invocation repeated for the third and final time, Michael wrenches her sword free. Lucifer convulses as his wings fold in on themselves and his limbs lengthen and melt together like bubbling wax. He writhes until his angelic form is shed completely, revealing a giant, monstrous serpent.

And then he Falls.

Zadkiel watches in horror as Lucifer tumbles through the hole in the sky, his long, grotesque body streaking downwards like a comet towards the Earth. He watches as Lucifer hits the ground hard enough to shatter the crust of the planet inwards, spider-webbing lines of lava and sulfur spraying forth. He watches as Lucifer struggles, spasms, and finally sinks below the surface of the burning pool, slipping from sight.

Zadkiel begins praying desperately, with all the atoms of his celestial heart. _Please help us, Mother! This can't happen. Please don't let them do this! Please save us!_

But for the first time, Zadkiel feels nothing. No warmth, no love, no celestial embrace. No safety. No mercy.

God isn't listening. 

The rebel angels are next. They thrash and plead, tearing their hair and beating their breasts, but it doesn't matter. They are dragged by unyielding hands to the edge all the same. One by one, they are thrown through the hole in the sky, now a roaring vortex of clouds and lightning. One by one, they Fall, shrieking and burning as they plunge from Heaven. Zadkiel feels the loss of each one along with the rest of the Host, his sobs ripped away by the howling wind. 

But more angels follow the rebels, and then more after that. Zadkiel doesn't understand. Angels are hauled indiscriminately to the edge and pushed, a dozen, a hundred, a thousand at a time, until the sky is filled with the Fallen. He watches as they plummet downwards as lines of light, each one known and named and loved, until they're snuffed out in the boiling pool.

Among them, Zadkiel sees Hadraniel. His sister. His friend. One of the only angels kind enough to listen to his endless questions. As she Falls, Hadraniel stretches a hand towards him, and unthinkingly, Zadkiel reaches back.

It doesn't matter. Hadraniel tumbles through the hole in the sky and bursts into flames, her grass-green eyes and her bell-like laugh and her ferocious love engulfed and gone before Zadkiel can even scream her name.

Zadkiel catches himself before reaching the edge, but it's too late. He's been seen. He hears the flapping of powerful wings and then he's slammed into from behind. He goes sprawling, dangerously close to the precipice. Rough hands flip him over and then Zadkiel is staring up into the wrathful face of the Archangel Gabriel.

"Zadkiel!" Gabriel says, in what would be a friendly tone if not for the celestial fire in his eyes. "Wondered where you'd gotten to, buddy."

"Gabriel," Zadkiel chokes. For a moment, he thinks he might be safe. But then Gabriel smiles as he tightens a hand in Zadkiel's robes, a too-sharp non-smile full of teeth and malice, and Zadkiel's heart plummets. "No," he pleads, struggling frantically, "No, please, please don't—"

" _Oh, please, don't, I beg of you!_ " Gabriel's voice is high-pitched and mocking as he starts dragging Zadkiel carelessly over the corpses of their siblings towards the edge. "That's all I've gotten today! No apologies, not thank yous for all my hard work. Ugh, it's so _tedious_."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Zadkiel panics as his hands scrabble uselessly at Gabriel's hold on him. "Please, Gabriel, I'm so sorry, please—" 

"Little late for that now, isn't it?" Gabriel chuckles. "Should've thought of that before you joined Lucifer's gang and started a civil war! Such a disappointment, kid. You're breaking my heart, truly. But don't worry, this will be over quick."

They're almost to the brink. Zadkiel desperately feels around, searching for something, anything that might help him. One hand manages to find a spear still clutched in a dead angel's hand. He pulls it free and thrusts it blindly upward, stabbing the sharp tip into Gabriel's thigh.

Gabriel roars in pain and momentarily lets go of Zadkiel. He scrambles away, but only gets a few steps before Gabriel is on him again.

"That _hurt_ , you little shit!" Gabriel shouts, slamming Zadkiel down again and digging a knee into his chest. The spear clatters away and out of reach. When Gabriel sees Zadkiel straining after it, the Archangel draws his silver sword and plunges it deeply into Zadkiel's shoulder.

Zadkiel screams. The blade goes all the way through his shoulder to bury in his wing underneath. He thrashes in panic and pain, only to find Gabriel has pinned him right at the edge of the hole, his head hanging over thin air. One wrong move could send him tumbling over into nothingness and flame. 

"You stupid, ungrateful _brat_ ," Gabriel seethes, wrapping both hands around the sword's handle and twisting. Zadkiel howls as the blade slowly carves deeper into him. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you and your rebel friends have caused? And after Heaven had the mercy to grant you exile instead of death, _this is the thanks I get?_ "

"I'm sorry!" Zadkiel gasps out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"You were hiding down here, weren't you? Playing dead so you didn't have to fight? Like a filthy little coward." Gabriel turns the sword harder.

"Yes!" Zadkiel wails. "Forgive me! I'm sorry, oh please stop, _please—_ " His voice breaks on another cry of pain as Gabriel continues to twist. Zadkiel's hands fly up to grip uselessly at the blade until his palms are sliced open and the silver sword is stained gold.

"You're weak," Gabriel sneers, "just like your precious Lucifer, just like all of them! Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just put you out of your misery." 

"No, please, I'll do anything!" Zadkiel babbles, his mind going blank with terror and agony. "I'll do anything you want, anything! Anything, just please don't kill me, or throw me over the edge, please, Gabriel, please—"

Gabriel leans back, stilling the blade. Then he smiles that same cruel non-smile, his eyes filling with a cold eagerness that would haunt Zadkiel for centuries to come.

"Anything?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Zadkiel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zadkiel) and [Hadraniel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hadraniel) are "real" angels, but these versions bear resemblance in name only. I didn't think I knew enough about theology or Hebrew to invent original angel names, so I just picked a few I liked. 
> 
> [Authorities](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christian_angelology#Powers_or_Authorities), or Powers, are said to be responsible for "supervising the movements of heavenly bodies to ensure the cosmos remains in order." I thought it was an appropriate angelic rank for Crowley, given he created stars when he was an angel. 
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are welcome. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](https://hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

They throw Zadkiel in a stone, windowless room. It's a prison cell, in a fortress-like tower called the Citadel. But Zadkiel doesn't know this, because the concept of imprisonment is foreign to angels. He doesn't understand the words _prison_ or _cell_ because they are freshly minted names for newly fashioned things. He doesn't know the Citadel was created solely to hold angels accused of transgressions against Heaven, or that the Archangels built it just before the War. Or that Zadkiel is the only angel they bothered to use it on.

He just knows it's cold, and he hurts.

Zadkiel curls against the farthest corner of the cell. His wounds are still open and oozing because he's been unable to heal himself. This is another terrifyingly new concept. Angels have always been able to heal themselves, any hurt quickly smoothed over and forgotten in an instant. But no matter how hard Zadkiel concentrates, or how hard he presses his mangled palms against his injuries, they remain, gold smeared and throbbing with agony.

The pain echoes the loss of so many of his siblings, another wound that refuses to close. It feels like Zadkiel is missing a limb, like a vital part of him has been hacked off and ripped away. He can't stop thinking about them, the Fallen—another term horrifying in its newness—the rebels, and all the angels that were pushed over the edge after them.

Zadkiel feels the questions flare to life inside him, fanning hot embers into flames. Why had the other angels been expelled from Heaven? He knew all of Lucifer's followers, and these angels weren't among them. So why had they been cast out? What sins were they guilty of?

Why Hadraniel?

Zadkiel closes his eyes and sees her Fall over and over again on a loop behind his eyelids, her face just before she tumbled through the hole and burst into a comet of fire. Her expression had been one of terror, and pain, but also… shock. Confusion. Like she didn't understand what was happening, or why.

Zadkiel doesn't understand, either. He curls even tighter into himself. Why is God allowing them to suffer so? Had She abandoned them completely?

What had they done to deserve this?

The sound of rattling keys makes Zadkiel snap his eyes open. Gabriel is standing just outside the cell. Zadkiel manages to bite back his moan of fear, but can't help shrinking into the corner as far as he can, making himself as small a target as possible.

"Zadkiel!" Gabriel booms, his voice reverberating off the stone walls and making Zadkiel flinch. "How we doing, buddy?"

When he doesn't answer, Gabriel follows Zadkiel's wide eyes to stare down at himself. The Archangel is still wearing his holy armor covered in the blood of the Fallen, the silver plates caked in dried gold. Zadkiel wonders, a bit hysterically, which of the stains are his.

"Oh, how silly of me!" Gabriel says with a good-natured laugh, like he's done something amusingly trivial; missing choir practice instead of slaughtering their brethren. "I was so excited to talk to you, I forgot to change!" He snaps his fingers and the armor is gone, replaced with gleaming white robes.

"There, much better," Gabriel says. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You. Zadkiel. How are you?"

Zadkiel opens his mouth to answer, but Gabriel plows right over him.

"Good to hear. So listen, I have a proposition for you."

Inexplicably, Gabriel pauses. When Zadkiel doesn't respond, he sighs theatrically.

"You're supposed to ask, _what kind of proposition, Gabriel?_ C'mon now, kid, I can't do all the work here."

It takes Zadkiel a few tries to get his voice to work properly. If wristwatches had been invented yet, Gabriel would be tapping his in irritation. When Zadkiel finally does get the words out, it's in little more than a hoarse whisper. "What kind of proposition?"

"Glad you asked!" Gabriel replies with gusto, his too-sharp non-smile back with a vengeance. "Now, you may remember I saved you during the Fall."

Zadkiel's shoulder wound throbs hotly. He claps a hand over it and winces, like it might betray him somehow.

"Normally, I don't ask for anything in return for my favor." Gabriel paces slowly in front of the cell. "I'm a pay it forward kind of guy. But your debt is not just with me. It's with all of Heaven. And," he points upwards emphatically, "with Her."

Zadkiel's eyes follow Gabriel's upright finger. Above them is nothing but cold stone.

"God, in Her infinite benevolence, has seen fit to spare your life from an eternity of suffering in Hell," Gabriel continues. "A debt—"

"Hell?" Zadkiel interrupts before he can stop himself.

"That's what we're calling it, where Lucifer and his lackeys went. I mean, it's catchy, right? _Hell!_ " Gabriel said with flare, waggling his fingers. "What's it like? Well, it's _Hell!_ "

Zadkiel merely stares.

"Anyhoo, you owe Heaven a debt for not Falling with the other rebels, yada yada yada," Gabriel goes on. "But we have to come up with some kind of punishment for you. Can't just let you off the hook, right?"

Gabriel's nonchalance starts to slide into a glare, but this time, Zadkiel catches his cue.

"… Right?"

"Right!" Gabriel repeats with enthusiasm. "So, the other Archangels think keeping you here for the rest of eternity should do the trick."

"No!" Zadkiel blurts out. The idea of being trapped here, alone, with nothing but his own grief and despair, fills him with dread. He'll go mad, he'll tear out his own feathers by the fistful. "Please, I'll do anything—"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time. _No, please, I'll do anything!_ " Gabriel mocked, flailing his hands in pretend helplessness with a chuckle. "But it did get me thinking. It'a such a waste, leaving you to rot in here, when you could be making yourself useful instead. So, here's my proposition: work release!"

"Work release?"

"Is there an echo in here?" Gabriel jokes. "Yes, work release. Work being the operative word. We'd pull you from cosmic construction and give you a new job."

Zadkiel's relief at being offered a way out of the cell starts to turn to unease. "What kind of job?"

"You'd be responsible for identifying and reporting any improper behavior in other angels. Sins, blaspheming, disobeying the Heavenly Code—"

"What code?"

"You and your questions!" Gabriel says in exasperation. "The Heavenly Code. The rules."

Zadkiel starts to ask something else, but then stops himself. Gabriel heaves a sigh.

"You know what, let's just get it out of your system. Fire away, kid."

Zadkiel pauses, momentarily wondering if this is a trap of some kind. But then the questions come bubbling out of him. He has to know.

"Why did Hadraniel Fall?"

"Hadraniel?" Gabriel asks with an incredulous laugh. "That's your great, burning question? Easy: she Fell because she was guilty."

"Guilty of what? She wasn't one of Lucifer's rebels."

"Not like you," Gabriel says with a grin, but it feels like a slap. Zadkiel can't help but flinch. "She was guilty of breaking the Code."

"The Heavenly Code? Which is what, exactly?"

"It's a list of rules outlining proper conduct for angels. We already have rules against sinning, of course, but the other Archangels and I felt something a bit more… substantial was required. After Lucifer."

"So all the angels who Fell that weren't with Lucifer broke these rules?"

"Now you're getting it! Makes perfect sense, right?"

"But how could they break the rules if no one knew what they were beforehand?"

"Let's not get into semantics."

"Which rule did Hadraniel break?"

"What does it matter?" Gabriel snaps, his congenial facade falling away to reveal the fury underneath. "She Fell, they all Fell, and there's nothing we can do about it now! All we can do is move forward towards a better, more united Heaven, and we will! At any cost!"

Zadkiel falls silent, shrinking back again.

Gabriel straightens his robes and pushes his perfect hair back into place, managing his tone into something smoother. "Which is where you come in. You'll monitor the other angels to make sure none of them are breaking the Code. If they do, you'll report them directly to me, and we'll deal with them accordingly."

"… By punishing them?"

"Exactly," Gabriel says, his non-smile back in place. "That way, we can catch unbecoming behavior at the start, and prevent anything like Lucifer's rebellion from ever happening again. You want that too, don't you, Zadkiel?"

Zadkiel swallows down the constellation of questions he has about what kind of punishment an angel would receive for breaking the Heavenly Code. Before the Fall, he would have no idea. But after, after being locked in this cell, and being tortured under Gabriel's sword, Zadkiel thinks he already knows the answer.

"Yes," he forces out. "Yes, I do want that."

"Good. Whew, what a relief!" Gabriel laughs. "Glad you're seeing the light. So, you'll do it?"

The thought of turning his siblings in, of presenting other angels to suffer like he's suffering, makes Zadkiel feel sick. He's never been sick before, but he's experiencing a lot of firsts today, and it feels awful. But if the only other alternative is to be locked in this cell forever…

Zadkiel would like to think Gabriel and the other Archangels wouldn't follow through with that threat, that they wouldn't actually be cruel enough to leave him here for the rest of eternity. But Zadkiel already knows the answer to that, too.

What could he choose, when it was no choice at all?

"Yes."

"Excellent!" Gabriel claps his hands together. "I knew we could count on you! Now, there's just a bit of paperwork."

Gabriel snaps his fingers and a scroll appears in his hand. He unfurls it with a flourish. It's so long it extends all the way to the stone floor, and then rolls between the bars of Zadkiel's cell.

"Just need your signature at the bottom there, and then it's official."

Zadkiel stands on unsteady feet, wincing as the movement jostles his injuries. He takes a step, but then Gabriel tuts in disapproval.

"Not very repentant to just saunter over, now is it?" Gabriel muses, a cruel gleam in his eye. "Crawl."

Zadkiel freezes. "What?"

"You heard me. Crawl."

Zadkiel recognizes the cold, curious glee with which Gabriel watches him. It was the same look the Archangel had while twisting his blade into Zadkiel's shoulder. Millenia from now, when he first observes human children melting ants with a magnifying glass, Zadkiel will shudder with remembered fear.

Trembling, Zadkiel does as he's told. Pressing his flayed palms to the floor makes him gasp in pain, but it's nothing compared to what the first movement does to his shoulder. He lurches forward and lets out a strangled cry, the matching holes in his shoulder and wing burning in agony. He scoots haltingly, first on one knee, and then the other. Each movement drives a wounded noise out of him and sends fresh rivulets of celestial essence down his arm and back. The end of the scroll seems ages away, and what little strength Zadkiel has is quickly fading. But he pulls himself forward again, and again, smearing gold across the hard stone as he struggles towards Gabriel.

By the time he reaches the edge of the scroll just inside the cell bars, Zadkiel is a bloody, shivering mess. He raises a quivering finger to mark the scroll with his sigil, but then Gabriel tugs it out of reach. When Zadkiel manages another hitching shuffle forward, Gabriel does it again.

Zadkiel shakily raises his head. "Please," he croaks.

A vicious sneer twists Gabriel's expression as the Archangel looks down on him. "Kiss my feet first."

Zadkiel falls onto his elbows with a pained groan. He carefully lowers his head towards Gabriel's feet just outside the bars. Humiliation, another new and horrible feeling, fills him like molten metal. He presses his lips just above Gabriel's toes.

"Now the other one."

Zadkiel repeats the motion on Gabriel's second foot. Then he collapses against the bars.

The end of the scroll reappears in front of him. With his last ounce of strength, Zadkiel presses his sigil to it, along with several smears of celestial ichor.

"Good. Now was that so hard?"

All Zadkiel can do is bleed in response. With another put-upon sigh, Gabriel hauls him upright as if he weighs nothing. Zadkiel isn't aware of what's happening until the Archangel places a cool hand on his forehead.

On the few occasions that he'd been injured badly enough to need another angel to help heal him, Zadkiel remembers it as a pleasant experience. A touch of a hand, and then the gentle flow of celestial energy. Safe and warm as whatever ailed him was lifted out and away, like wisps of cloud on the wind.

This is nothing like that.

Gabriel's healing is as efficient and brutal as everything else he does. Righteous light pours into Zadkiel through the Archangel's hand, white-hot and searing. Zadkiel screams as the light scours through his celestial being, melting his wounds shut and burning away his pain.

When Gabriel finally releases him, Zadkiel falls to his knees with a deep, shuddering gasp.

"Wounds made with celestial steel need a little more juice to heal," Gabriel explains through the ringing in Zadkiel's ears. "Better?" 

Gingerly, Zadkiel touches his shoulder. The injury is closed and now covered with smooth, hard scar tissue. He feels the same stiffness when he stretches his wing and flexes his hands. Healed, but roughly. Functional, but still marked.

It wouldn't be a punishment if he didn't have something to remember it by. 

"Yes."

"What do you say, then?" Gabriel asks condescendingly. 

Zadkiel gets to his feet. His limbs are still shaky, and he wants nothing more than to go back to cowering in the cell's corner. He's not a fighter. He's not brave, or strong, or any of the other things an angel is supposed to be. In truth, the only thing he's ever been good at is asking questions.

But he won't find any answers hiding in this cage.

Zadkiel curls his newly-healed hands into fists and meets the Archangel's gaze through the bars.

"Thank you, Gabriel."

"Splendid!" Gabriel beams. He snaps his fingers, and the cell door springs open. "Well, no time to waste! We've got a lot of work to do, kid."

Zadkiel steps through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and constructive criticism welcome. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](http://www.hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


	3. Chapter 3

Zadkiel enters Home Office and takes the lift to the top floor. The glass walls offer a sweeping view of Heaven, the silver and crystal buildings sparkling in the perpetual sunlight. From here he can see the Great Pyramid, the Eiffel Tower, and the Empire State Building—all replicas, of course. Heaven insists that copying humankind's achievements honors them as the Almighty's greatest creation, but really angels lack the imagination to do much else. Like everything else in Heaven, these monuments are perfect, but lifeless. Cold. The angels smoothed away all the faults and flaws of the originals into unparalleled versions of glass and steel, but in doing so removed everything that made them so clever and wondrous in the first place. Their imperfections, their intricacies. Their humanity. Without that, Zadkiel thinks Heaven's attempts are pale imitations at best.

Of course, no one in Heaven cares what Zadkiel thinks. Over the millennia, he's learned to keep his opinions—and his questions—to himself.

The lift chimes and opens onto the top floor. Zadkiel makes his way to the reception area, sits down on one of the pristine white sofas, and waits. Gabriel always makes him wait. Even after 6,000 years, the Archangel still enjoys his petty power plays.

A trio of angels pass by deep in conversation. They are all wearing neutral-colored suits and scrolling away on thin rectangles of crystal, celestial communication devices. As they approach Zadkiel, they fall silent and their eyes slide away from him. Their conversation doesn't start up again until they're well beyond the reception area, one of the angels letting out a contemptuous laugh pitched just right to echo off the glass walls.

This process repeats itself with each new group of angels, half a dozen in the time Zadkiel sits there and waits. He stares straight ahead, his face carefully blank. He's used to this kind of treatment by now, this deliberate disregard. The kind that averts its eyes, but is actually watching every move you make, so it can be retold later in increasingly exaggerated fashion.

It's because Zadkiel is different from the other angels. Oh, he might look the same—dressed in a dove gray suit and tie, red hair neatly combed back, white wings carefully maintained—but that's where the similarities end. Not that the other angels know his true identity; what his job is, what he's guilty of. There are rumors, of course. Whispers, darting glances. A spy in their midst. How else could Home Office have such an uncanny knack for sniffing out even the slightest hint of disobedience?

No, they only know there is something… off about Zadkiel. Something other, something odd. Something they can't explain, but feel deep down in their celestial cores.

He's alone, for one thing. Angels in Heaven are never alone. The Almighty designed them to be cooperative, social beings, and they do almost everything together, from singing hymns to preening each other's wings. Every angel is given at least one partner on their holy job assignments, to help them and protect them. Even now, the angels going out of their way to ignore Zadkiel are doing so in teams of two and three.

Zadkiel continues to stare at nothing, the other angels flowing around him like a rock in a stream. It's another one of Gabriel's punishments, being alone. Setting him apart as a kindness, exiling him in plain sight for his own good. _This is a solo job_ , the Archangel had said on that first day. _No partners, no help. You can't tell anyone. No one else would understand. And our work is too important for that. Right, buddy?_

 _Right,_ Zadkiel had said. _Yes, I understand._

It's just another slice in a long, long line of cuts. 

The angel behind the reception desk is beckoning to him. "Gabriel will see you now."

Zadkiel stands, buttoning his suit jacket and smoothing down his hair. Beyond the glass, the shining buildings stand still and silent, pitiful ghosts of humanity's accomplishments. 

It only hurts if he lets it hurt.

* * *

There's not a name for what Zadkiel does. Not at first.

He starts with simple reconnaissance missions around Heaven. Establishing relationships, gaining trust, gathering information. He learns how to observe, how to deceive. How to lie. What to say and how to say it, which questions will make the subject reveal their deepest secrets.

And they always do. It's like they can't wait to tell Zadkiel every detail. He asks, and the words simply fall out of their mouths, like ripened fruit dropping from trees.

He reports all findings to Gabriel, and angels found guilty of breaking the Heavenly Code are punished accordingly. That usually means imprisonment in the Citadel for reeducation. The length of the sentence is proportionate to the severity of the crime. Some angels reappear in a few days or a week, pale and shaken. Others are never seen again.

Zadkiel doesn't know exactly what _reeducation_ means, but he can guess. Sometimes if he passes too closely to the Citadel on the street, he can hear the screams. He remembers his own imprisonment there, the very first, and he shudders, walking faster.

He avoids that part of Heaven if he can help it. Too many memories. Too much guilt.

There are worse punishments, of course. Demotion. Excommunication. Execution, although Zadkiel has yet to see that one used. He likes to think the Archangels lost their taste for death after the War. But maybe the threats of pain and exile are enough, and simply no angel has dared to commit a crime grave enough to warrant it.

It doesn't feel like holy work, his job. But after several missions, Gabriel is pleased with Zadkiel's progress. The Archangel is as quick to praise as he is to punish, and Zadkiel is ashamed at how greedily he hoards Gabriel's approval, tiny gemstones of reassurance he can hold onto in the darkest of nights. _This is the right thing. Gabriel says so. I'm doing the right thing._

Some nights, Zadkiel believes it.

Other nights are harder.

* * *

No, the name for what Zadkiel does, for what he is, comes later. After Zadkiel witnesses Samyaza and his Watchers be chained hand and foot, and buried alive in a deep canyon within the Earth. After he sees the dark red stain at the base of Mount Hermon, all that remained of the Watchers' village. After Gabriel makes him watch the Great Flood rage through the valley, washing away the rest of humanity, save for Noah and his Ark.

After Zadkiel's betrayal.

After Gabriel grips him by the nape of his neck, rewriting it while the floodwaters froth and seethe below them: _t_ _hey were monsters, the Nephilim. Abominations. They had to be destroyed or they would grow to feast on the world like locusts. This is what happens when you disobey._

Samyaza looks up at Zadkiel, his eyes burning with despair and fury, and spits in his face. He names Zadkiel over and over, screams it again and again until the soil covers him completely, sealing the Watchers away forever. 

_Traitor._

And Zadkiel nods, tears streaming down his face. _Yes. Yes. Yes. This is what happens. This is what happens when you disobey._

* * *

"Zadkiel, buddy!" Gabriel bellows in greeting. "Give me just a moment, kid, and I'll be right with you."

Zadkiel nods, mostly to himself because Gabriel goes back to the paperwork on his desk without waiting for a response. The Archangel's office is as starkly white as the reception area, not even a speck of non-existent dust out of place. Two walls are made completely of glass, offering a panorama of the London Eye, the Vatican, and the Taj Mahal. In the middle of the room hovers an expansive globe of Earth, spinning lazily and swirling with miniature cloud formations.

Zadkiel lets the frosted glass door whisper shut behind him and takes a step into the office. Without looking up at him, Gabriel raises a single finger. Then he points to the floor.

After 6,000 years, Zadkiel knows not to expect mercy from Gabriel. But it doesn't make it any easier to lower himself to the gleaming white tiles. _It only hurts if he lets it hurt._ Humiliation prickling the back of his neck, Zadkiel obediently crawls on his hands and knees across the floor until he reaches Gabriel's enormous marble desk. He stays like that until Gabriel finishes whatever he's working on.

"Good boy, Crawly," Gabriel says, looking down on him with a sharp, smug smile. Zadkiel's face heats up at the contemptible nickname, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep still while Gabriel pats him on the head like a dog.

Satisfied, the Archangel gestures to one of the chairs facing his massive desk. "Sit! Come on, we've got lots to discuss!"

"Yes, sir," Zadkiel says, and does so. Gabriel slaps a thick file folder in front of him. Zadkiel flips it open and sees a familiar face staring back at him.

"The Principality Aziraphale?" He asks in surprise.

"Your new assignment," Gabriel says, tenting his fingers. "We think he's been performing unauthorized miracles."

"Commandment four, subsection two of the Heavenly Code," Zadkiel recites. "Punishable by one week in the Citadel for each offense."

"Very good." Gabriel grins with something like pride. Zadkiel hates the spark of validation it lights inside him, hates the way he covets it anyway.

"Do you have any proof?"

"Not yet. But that's where you come in. Let me show you something." Gabriel rounds the desk and goes to the globe, Zadkiel following with the file still in hand. Gabriel snaps, and several spots of light sprout in the Northern Hemisphere.

"These are all the sanctioned miracles Aziraphale has performed in the last five years in the vicinity of London, England. And this," Gabriel snaps again, "is the total number of miracles reported by other agents to have been performed in the same area during the same time period."

The number of lights quadruples at least, illuminating the entirety of Western Europe. Heaven is alerted to every miracle an angel performs, including what the miracle is for, and where and when it occurs. Home Office uses it as a way to track their agents. But if an angel could somehow get around that… Zadkiel blinks, reading between the lines.

"You think Aziraphale is responsible for all these miracles," he says. "Which means he's found a way to perform miracles that Heaven can't track."

"Bingo, kid. And I don't have to tell you how dangerous that could be."

"Very," Zadkiel mutters, glancing down at Aziraphale's photo again. He certainly doesn't look dangerous, standing by a lake feeding ducks with serene expression on his face, his pudgy corporation wrapped in a soft-looking cardigan. But after several thousand years as a spy _(traitor)_ , Zadkiel has learned that even the most unassuming angel is capable of disobedience, given the right circumstances. No one is immune to treachery.

"Do you know him?"

Zadkiel looks up to find Gabriel studying him critically.

"No, sir," he replies, clearing his throat. "Not personally, anyway. I know he's the only angel permanently stationed on Earth. And I remember his… demotion."

"Ah, yes, _that_ ," Gabriel says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Unfortunate business. But, an example had to be made."

In truth, there isn't an angel in Heaven who doesn't know who Aziraphale is. His crime is well-known, and his punishment had been public and brutal: the only angel to ever suffer demotion. And for good reason. Zadkiel shivers, remembering.

"So," Gabriel says, clapping his hands and recalling Zadkiel's attention back to the present, "you will go to Earth and cozy up to Aziraphale. We already have an appropriate cover for you. And I don't just want proof, I want you to catch him red-handed, in the act. I want to know how he's doing it."

"Yes, sir," Zadkiel says, snapping the folder shut. "When do I leave?"

"You mean when do _we_ leave," Gabriel says, going back to his desk and pulling a white velvet box from one of the drawers. "I'm coming with you for the introductions."

"Sir?"

"Just let me do the talking. Aziraphale can be… stubborn."Gabriel opens the box and turns it on the desk to face Zadkiel. "Can't forget these."

Nestled within the box are two wrist bands made of celestial silver. The insides are engraved with Enochian sigils designed to cloak Zadkiel's angelic form from being recognized underneath his human corporation. They make him appear a stranger to other angels, even to those he's met before. Essential for his job as a spy.

Zadkiel hates wearing them. They look and feel like shackles, which he's sure was intentional on Gabriel's part. Just another punishment, another cut. _It only hurts if he lets it hurt._

"Come on, kid, I don't have all day," Gabriel barks. It's only through millennia of practice that Zadkiel doesn't jump.

Zadkiel makes his expression neutral before slipping on one band, and then the other. They are cool against his skin. He then pulls down the cuffs of his shirt to hide the bands from sight. 

"Good boy," Gabriel says, all smiles again. He snaps the box shut and puts it back in his desk. Then he checks his watch. "Aziraphale's shop should be by closed now. Let's go."

* * *

When they pop onto the material plane, it's late enough that the streets of Soho are mostly deserted. Zadkiel sways a bit on his feet, momentarily overwhelmed by the sensation of having a human corporation again. It's been nearly 400 years since the last time he was on Earth, and it's so much _more_ than he remembers: the streetlights blaze in his vision, a passing car rumbles loud enough to set his teeth chattering, and the cool nighttime breeze makes his hair stand on end. It's enough to make his brain spin in his skull.

If Gabriel experiences any of this, it doesn't show. The Archangel merely straightens the lapels of his suit and sets off down the road. Walking, yes, Zadkiel remembers walking. He puts one foot in front of the other, his new hips and knees only vaguely cooperating.

He trails behind Gabriel until they come to a corner shop. It's obviously closed, but that doesn't stop the Archangel from snapping his fingers to miracle the lock and then opening the door.

The inside of the shop is pleasantly warm, lit by soft yellow light that Zadkiel's new eyes appreciate immensely. Every available surface is covered in books; row after row of shelves, several tables, and even a few precarious stacks on the furniture and floor. Where there aren't books, Zadkiel sees softness, plumply cushioned chairs and layers of thick Persian rugs. It's quite cozy, and not at all what Zadkiel had expected after the antiseptic white of Heaven.

Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen, and Zadkiel wonders if the angel is out. But he's quickly proven wrong after he accidentally bumps a table, sending a sizable stack of books crashing to the floor.

"Oh, for Hell's sake!" Aziraphale shouts, his voice getting closer and louder as he storms towards them from the depths of the shop. "We are quite definitely _closed!_ As in _not open_ , as in come back tomorrow, go away, thank you _very_ much—"

Aziraphale stops his tirade abruptly when he sees two angels, and not an intrusively late customer, are the cause of the commotion.

Gabriel smiles at him with too much teeth. "Hello, Aziraphale."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](http://www.hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I've added a tag for panic attacks, and that it becomes relevant in this chapter. 
> 
> Hope you all are staying safe out there.

The worst part of Zadkiel's job is the reveal: when Gabriel appears to spring the trap on their unsuspecting target, to pull back the curtain and reveal Zadkiel for the spy _(traitor)_ he really is. That split-second spark of understanding when the subject finally realizes they've been caught, and there's nothing they can do to save themselves.

They still try, of course. Most angels, even the more powerful ones, go to terrified pieces the moment they see Gabriel. They cry, plead for mercy, kiss Gabriel's shoes. Others try to fight their way free in a frantic burst of violence. Neither method works; in the end, all roads lead to the Citadel.

But Aziraphale is different. Zadkiel doesn't see guilt or fear or desperation in his face. If anything, the angel looks annoyed at finding them in his shop after hours. Aziraphale sets his teacup and book down next to the cash register and folds his hands primly over his belly, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

"Gabriel. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

"What, no pleasantries, Aziraphale?" Gabriel asks, his smile still too sharp. "No small talk? I hope you're not this rude to your customers."

Aziraphale swallows, and grinds out a smile. "Please forgive me. It's late, and it's been a trying day. How, ah, are you, Gabriel?"

"Me? Splendid, couldn't be better. And yourself?"

"Well, I—"

"Great!" Gabriel says, clapping his hands. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I have something to discuss with you. A mission."

"Oh?" Aziraphale asks, clasping his hands behind his back. "What sort of mission?"

"A very important mission," Gabriel says with flair. Zadkiel has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Gabriel often said the same thing before presenting his own assignments. "It's recently come to Heaven's attention that several very powerful books have been… misplaced. The kind that are better kept under lock and key Upstairs, if you know what I mean."

"Yes. Dark magic, I presume?"

"Among other nastiness. A few have turned up in the hands of humans, so Heaven wants them out of circulation as soon as possible, before any serious damage is caused."

"And you want me to find them."

"Exactly!" Gabriel beams. "I thought, who better for the job than my favorite Principality and book seller?"

"I'm flattered, Gabriel," Aziraphale says, even though he clearly isn't, "but you didn't need to come all the way down here for this. A message would have sufficed."

"I know, but I wanted to introduce you to one of our top agents," Gabriel says, sweeping a hand towards Zadkiel. "He'll be assisting you on this assignment."

Aziraphale's eyes flick cooly to Zadkiel. "And he is…?"

"This is, uh…" Gabriel waggles the fingers on his still-outstretched hand and stares at Zadkiel like the answer is written on his forehead. Apparently _we already have an appropriate cover for you_ didn't include a name. Great. This is why Zadkiel usually insists on coming up with his own cover identity. He's about to introduce himself with an old alias when Gabriel snaps his fingers in triumph.

"Crawly!"

"No," Zadkiel blurts out. That can't be his name! He'd sooner jump into a pit of hellfire than use that horrible name.

"No?" Gabriel echoes, his expression turning dangerous. Zadkiel is about three seconds away from disobedience, and he knows it. He frantically glances around the book shop, his mind going blank in panic.

Finally, his gaze lands on a book laying face-up on the carpet, one of the stack he'd accidentally knocked over. It's a book on, fittingly, the study of occult magic.

"No," Zadkiel says more confidently. "It's Crowley."

The celestial fire in Gabriel's eyes means Zadkiel will be paying for this later, repeatedly and with much enthusiasm. But for now, Gabriel plasters his fake smile back on and turns to Aziraphale once more. " _Crowley_ , yes, my mistake. So many angels in my department, it's hard to keep track of them all!"

"Crowley," Aziraphale repeats, obviously skeptical. "What an unusual name for an angel."

"Well, Crowley's never been accused of being normal!" Gabriel barks, clamping a hand down on Zadkiel's shoulder. When his fingers dig in hard, Zadkiel has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from yelping. "But he is one of our best and brightest. He'll be a great asset on this mission."

"Yes, about that," Aziraphale says with careful politeness. "After 6,000 years on Earth, I've become accustomed to working alone. I'm afraid another angel would only be an inconvenience at this point."

Zadkiel has to blink to keep surprise from showing on his face. What is Aziraphale doing? No one disagrees with Gabriel, unless they have a death wish. The slow and painful kind of death wish.

"Nonsense," Gabriel says, his facade starting to crack. "This mission has the potential to be dangerous, after all. I would be remiss if I sent you in without backup."

"No, really, I must insist—"

" _Enough_ , Aziraphale," Gabriel rumbles, his voice suddenly sharpening into steel. He removes his hand from Zadkiel's shoulder and takes a step towards the other angel. "Crowley is here to help you with this mission, and you _will_ work with him. Do I make myself clear?"

And now Zadkiel sees it, the fear that's been missing in Aziraphale since they first entered the book shop. A small tendril of it curls behind Aziraphale's blue eyes as Gabriel moves towards him, slowly, like a predator with all the time in the world. Zadkiel suddenly realizes how much _bigger_ Gabriel's corporation is than either of them, the Archangel seeming to double in size as he takes another step and partially obscures the nearest lamp, casting the entire shop into shadow.

But Aziraphale stands his ground. He doesn't shrink away, or start babbling apologies. Instead, he tilts his chin up so he can look Gabriel in the eye, hands still clasped nonchalantly behind his back. 

"Crystal."

Gabriel steps back, and soft yellow light floods the shop again. Zadkiel lets out a breath of relief along with it.

"Excellent, exactly what I wanted to hear!" Gabriel says, his false friendliness back in place. "Now, here are all the books we're looking for, and their last known locations." Gabriel snaps his fingers, and hands the piece of paper that manifests to Zadkiel. "Shouldn't take you too long to track them all down, I think. Regular reports, you both know the drill."

"Yes, Gabriel."

"Yes, sir."

"All righty then, I think that's it." Gabriel raises his hand in benediction. "May the Almighty bless and protect you. Bye!"

And with that, Gabriel snaps his fingers again, and vanishes.

The air in the book shop becomes instantly less oppressive. Zadkiel lets his shoulders sag, and swears even the lamps become a few watts brighter. Aziraphale, however, continues to stand stiffly.

"May I see the list, please?" he asks.

"Yeah, sure." Zadkiel reaches to hand it to him, but instead trips over the pile of books still scattered at his feet. He loses his balance and pitches forward.

"Careful!" Aziraphale cries, grabbing him by the elbow to keep him upright. Zadkiel doesn't fail to notice the strength in Aziraphale's grip—surprising given the pudgy state of his corporation—or that Aziraphale removes his hand immediately, as if he's been burned. Interesting.

"Sorry, a bit clumsy it seems," Zadkiel says, smothering his embarrassment. Damn corporation. He's starting to suspect it's missing a few key ligaments. But a bit of buffoonery is sometimes just the trick to get suspects to open up; if they think Zadkiel is a harmless screwup, they're more likely to trust him and let something slip.

"It's quite all right," Aziraphale replies. He stoops down and begins collecting the books from the floor.

Zadkiel kneels down next to him. "Here, let me help you."

"That's not necessary."

"No, I was the one who knocked them over." Zadkiel picks up the nearest book and holds it out to Aziraphale. "I insist."

Aziraphale's expression creases with an emotion that Zadkiel has trouble identifying. Confusion? Conflict? But then it's gone, and Aziraphale gently tugs the volume from Zadkiel's fingers.

"Thank you," he says, still a bit stiff.

"You're welcome."

Aziraphale stacks the books, shuffling them into order by a logic known only to himself. Then he sets them carefully back on the table, adjusting the corners until they are perfectly aligned. The care and precision Aziraphale uses speaks to his deep affection for the books.

"Oh, the list," Zadkiel says, and holds it out again. Aziraphale takes the piece of paper, and without even looking at it, stuffs it into the pocket of his cardigan.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks abruptly. "I need a drink."

"Um, sure," Zadkiel says, but Aziraphale is already heading further into the shop. Zadkiel hurries to follow him through the maze-like shelves until they reach a sort of back room. 

Like the rest of the book shop, the room is cozy, if a bit more cluttered. To the left is an antique roll-top desk crammed with every manner of drawers and papers, looking more like a bird's nest than any sort of organizational system. Beyond the desk, Zadkiel can see several glass display cases containing what look to be manuscripts, a few of which are ancient enough to be on honest-to-goodness scrolls. There's a little sitting area framed by a mismatched armchair and sofa, both overstuffed, complete with a carved Chinese tea table, a marble chess set, and a 19th century gramophone. In the far corner is a spiral staircase that must lead to the shop's second floor. Oh, and books, of course. So many books.

Aziraphale is busy banging through the cabinets in the kitchenette along the back wall. After some more rummaging, he produces a dusty bottle of amber-colored liquid, and two glass tumblers.

Zadkiel sits on the sofa, wriggling himself back to the edge when the floral upholstery threatens to engulf him. Aziraphale plunks a tumbler in front of him before uncorking the bottle with a pop. As he tips a bit of the liquor into the glass, Zadkiel can see his hands are shaking terribly. Is that why he hid them behind his back in front of Gabriel? Turning his weakness into a show of calculated composure. _Very_ interesting.

Zadkiel picks up his tumbler as Aziraphale pours himself several generous glugs. He smells it, wrinkling his nose. "What kind of alcohol is this?"

Aziraphale downs his glass completely before filling it again. "The strong kind."

Zadkiel takes a small sip and immediately starts coughing. The liquor is like fire down his throat, burning badly enough to make his eyes water.

Aziraphale sits in the armchair, watching Zadkiel with no small amount of amusement. The bastard. "So. _Crowley_. Have you been on Earth before?"

"Yes," Zadkiel sniffs, trying to wipe his eyes without looking like he's doing so. "Although it's been a few centuries."

"When were you here last?"

"Oh… 1666, I think. I was running down an angel who'd stolen several flasks of holy fire."

"1666…" Aziraphale muses. Then he sputters. "The Great Fire of London? That was _you?_ "

"The angel I was chasing started it. But, uh. Yeah. Technically."

Aziraphale is staring at him with wide eyes. "But why would an _angel_ do such a thing?"

Is Aziraphale really that naive? Surely being on Earth for six millennia had shown him much worse. "Greed," Zadkiel says simply. "He was selling the holy fire illegally. Humans, demons, other supernaturals, anyone and anything with enough cash was fair game. I caught him in the act, and instead of facing the Citadel, he burned himself alive."

Aziraphale lowers his glass, his expression twisting in grief. "Oh, dear. Holy fire, no wonder it was so hard to put out. And all those humans… how terrible."

"Even angels are capable of terrible things." Zadkiel takes another sip from his glass, managing to merely grimace at the burn this time. "Especially angels, in my experience."

"But why would an angel steal things to sell for money?" Aziraphale asks, his face still conflicted. "Surely he could have miracled up whatever amount he needed."

"Because Heaven tracks all miracles, as you know," Zadkiel says, watching Aziraphale carefully from behind his glass. "And this particular angel didn't want Heaven to know about the other crimes he was committing." Zadkiel leaves out why the angel stole the holy fire in the first place: to make enough money to free his human lover from slavery. Or that the angel immolated himself in anguish after Gabriel killed the human as punishment. 

"I see. So that's what you do, then? Investigate other angels for Heaven?"

Zadkiel studies Aziraphale. The question is casual enough, but Aziraphale is matching his stare with intense scrutiny of his own. It's plain the other angel is not the least bit fooled by Gabriel's paper-thin cover story, or Zadkiel's ridiculously absurd alias. That he's trying to figure out what Zadkiel's true intentions are, why he's really here.

And what he already knows.

"I recover dangerous occult and ethereal objects that fall into the wrong hands," Zadkiel says, the lie rolling easily off his human tongue. "Which, yes, sometimes involves investigating those responsible."

"Quite a fitting position to help find missing books on black magic, then."

Zadkiel returns Aziraphale's gaze without blinking. "Almost as fitting as a rare book dealer."

"Yes, well." Aziraphale drains his drink and stands, his still-trembling hands making the glass clatter as he sets it on the table. His expression is now completely shuttered, as it had been with Gabriel. "I mentioned before it's been a trying day, so I'm afraid I must retire. Goodnight."

"Goodnight? What—"

But Aziraphale is already gone. Before Zadkiel can register where, he hears a door slam shut upstairs.

"Rude," Zadkiel mutters. But he's smiling. Because it doesn't matter if Aziraphale miracled himself up those stairs to escape, or if he's somehow much faster than he looks. It doesn't matter that Aziraphale is obviously hiding something, or that he's already suspicious of Zadkiel. It doesn't matter that Aziraphale is out of sight doing Lord knows what since angels don't need sleep.

No, all that matters is that Aziraphale is, without a doubt, _interesting._

And it's been ages since Zadkiel investigated anyone truly interesting.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn't let himself fall apart until the bedroom door is shut and locked behind him. He stumbles into his rarely-used bathroom, and locks that door too, just for good measure.

Not that locked doors will keep an angel out. It certainly hadn't kept Gabriel out—Gabriel towering over him with his shark smile and cruel eyes, always watching, waiting to catch Aziraphale making a mistake, looming closer and closer—

— _this is what happens when you disobey_ , the sword sawing roughly through one wing and then the other, blood running thick and hot down the backs of his thighs—

All of the terror Aziraphale has been suppressing since Gabriel first arrived comes roaring to the surface. With a whimper, he slides to the floor between the bathtub and the sink, knees curled inward. His trembling ratchets up into full-body tremors, and his limbs quake uncontrollably.

Angels do not need to do many of the things that humans do—eat, drink, find shelter—but the more time you spend in a human corporation, the harder it is to deny those instincts. As an angel, Aziraphale doesn't need the adrenaline response that's currently causing him to shake apart; he doesn't need to breathe, or to start hyperventilating when his lungs begin to seize with fear; he doesn't need the tears staining his cheeks.

But after 6,000 years, Aziraphale is more human than most.

By morning, he will have picked himself up. He will have dried his eyes, and made a plan. He will have decided to survive this.

But morning is a long way off. For now, Aziraphale simply presses his face into his quivering hands, lets despair fill him to the brim, and sobs as quietly as he can manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More on the Great Fire of London [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Fire_of_London).
> 
> As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. I can be found on tumblr [here](http://www.hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


	5. Chapter 5

It's nearly half past nine the next morning before Aziraphale reappears. Morning sun filters through the dusty windows and paints the book shop in shades of gold, motes making lazy constellations between the shelves. Zadkiel is lounging in a warm spot on the sofa with his feet propped up on the table, idly paging through one of Aziraphale's books. He hears shuffling above and looks up to see the other angel descending the stairs.

"Finally decided to grace us with your presence," Zadkiel says lightly. "You were gone so long I started to think you'd bolted in the night."

"And deprive myself of your delightful company?" Aziraphale asks archly. "Perish the thought."

Zadkiel smirks and flips another page. "Sleeping in does seem a bit redundant when you're a tireless celestial being, though."

"Angels can sleep just like humans do, if they so choose." Zadkiel notes that Aziraphale doesn't seem to be including himself in that statement. Just what has he been doing upstairs, then? "It's actually quite refreshing under the right circumstances. Perhaps you should try it sometime."

"Refreshing, hmm? Maybe I will."

Zadkiel's feet fall suddenly to the carpet as the table is pulled out from under him. He looks up with raised brows to find Aziraphale standing over him with an aggressively benign expression, his hand outstretched. He looks much more put together than he did last night, sporting a sharp bowtie and camel-colored blazer instead of his rumpled cardigan.

"What, this?" Zadkiel asks, wagging the book and making the leather covers creak. "I'm reading it."

Aziraphale tilts his head patronizingly. "I think we both know you're not."

He's not. Pretending to read one of Aziraphale's precious books—Zadkiel had picked an old and expensive-looking one for maximum effect—serves two purposes; one, it will keep Aziraphale agitated and distracted, which will make him easier to manipulate; and two, it satisfies Zadkiel's urge to annoy anyone as tightly wound as Aziraphale is. How can he resist when the possibilities for irritation are nearly endless?

Or so Zadkiel had thought. But this morning's new and improved Aziraphale doesn't seem fazed in the slightest. Clearly, Zadkiel is going to have to up his game.

Rolling his eyes, Zadkiel makes a big show of snapping the book shut and dropping it into Aziraphale's waiting hand.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says. He runs a finger down the book's spine and along the edges, as if checking for injury. Zadkiel's not _that_ desperate yet. "Surely you know it's rude to touch someone else's things without asking permission."

"I got bored," Zadkiel shrugs. "After all, I was so _rudely_ left to my own devices last night."

"Yes, I wanted to apologize for that." Aziraphale puts the book back in its rightful place on a nearby shelf.

"This is you apologizing?"

Aziraphale huffs. " _Yes_. You are my guest, Crowley, and I behaved abominably last night. It was—"

Aziraphale stops, his gaze locked on the table. Zadkiel thinks he's spotted a scuff of some sort, but instead Aziraphale makes that complicated face again, the one Zadkiel couldn't read last night, and still can't now. Zadkiel follows his line of sight to the tea set on the table, still sitting out where Aziraphale had left it the night before.

Ah, he's noticed. Zadkiel watches Aziraphale closely, looking for a crack in his composure, a tell, a lead Zadkiel can use. Something, anything, that will get him one step closer to discovering whatever Aziraphale is hiding.

But Aziraphale is too clever for that. Instead, he swallows, tearing his eyes away from the tea set and back to Zadkiel. When he speaks again, his voice and expression are carefully neutral.

"It was, as you said, rude of me. So, I apologize. I was hoping to take you out for a coffee to make up for it. If you're amenable, that is."

Zadkiel lets the invitation stretch. When Aziraphale has no further reaction, Zadkiel relents, and stands. He smiles, makes it friendly. "Sure. I could be amenable."

"Excellent," Aziraphale says, already bustling towards the door, as if he can't wait to leave—and get Zadkiel away from his shop. "I know a very good cafe that's close by. We can discuss the list, I have an idea of where we can start our search."

"Sounds good to me." Zadkiel follows Aziraphale to the front of the shop, but at a pace designed to make the angel wait. He finds Aziraphale holding the door open, the picture of polite patience.

"After you," he says. "I insist."

Zadkiel looks at Aziraphale. There's something different about him, and it's not just the wardrobe change. The soft, shaking angel Zadkiel met last night is gone. Now he sees a glint of steel in Aziraphale's blue eyes, a stalwart strength in the set of his spine, a cool unflappability cloaking him like armor. No, this is not Aziraphale the book shop owner; this is Aziraphale the soldier, Aziraphale the warrior.

This is Aziraphale deciding to fight back.

Well, two can play at that game. If it's been ages since Zadkiel has investigated anyone interesting, it's been _eons_ since he's had a good challenge.

A smile unfurls on Zadkiel's face. "Well, if you insist."

He steps out of the shop, Aziraphale locking up behind them. Inside, the tea set remains on the table, innocuous in the morning sunlight. It's a porcelain set in a tasteful floral pattern, all the pieces scrubbed to a well-loved sheen.

It's a harmless enough sight. But Aziraphale is intelligent enough to understand what it really means: that Zadkiel had replaced the teacup, the one Aziraphale had left by the cash register last night, in its matching saucer. That he'd washed and dried the cup in the kitchenette first. That Zadkiel had arranged it as visual proof of just one of the things he'd done while left unattended—and as implied proof for all the things he _might_ have done. 

That Aziraphale fleeing upstairs had left Zadkiel alone in his shop for hours, unsupervised, free to rearrange his tea set, his books, and Lord knows what else; to rummage, to snoop, to pull apart Aziraphale's things and _search_.

And that Zadkiel had apparently not wasted a minute of it.

* * *

Outside it's a rare sunny day in London, the last unseasonably warm throes of autumn before winter finally sets in. The streets of Soho are clogged with humans bent on enjoying it to the fullest, people rushing by with briefcases, children, and small dogs in tow.

Aziraphale leads the way, pointing out landmarks and other things that have changed since Zadkiel last walked these streets. Once again he's struck by how much _more_ the world of humans is now. Not that Elizabethan London had been a bastion of peace and tranquility, but it was never this loud, this bright, this cleanly sharp. The muddy lanes once filled with rat-infested tenements, grubby little shops, and all manner of filth have been replaced with tidy roadways and gleaming storefronts, all of it neat and pretty as a postcard.

Zadkiel scarcely knows where to look, his mind awash in a tidal wave of sensory information. Beside him, Aziraphale is keeping up his running commentary as they stop at an intersection.

"We have to wait here for the light to change," he says. "And you must be careful around these modern automobiles, Crowley, they're much faster than the horse carts of yore."

Zadkiel snorts. "Of yore? Really? Which one of us is 400 years out of date again?"

"There's nothing wrong with enjoying a good turn of phrase," Aziraphale says crisply. "This way."

Aziraphale leads them to a cafe with an outdoor terrace and cheerful striped awnings. After speaking with a waiter, they're seated at a table with a good view of the street and the adjacent park. Aziraphale immediately starts chattering about the menu and its offerings. Zadkiel is still adrift in a haze of sensation. He feels almost detached from his corporation, like a flag coming loose in the wind, or an anchor sinking slowly to the ocean floor.

"Crowley? Are you listening to me?"

Zadkiel blinks, his attention crash-landing back into his body. "What?"

Aziraphale frowns at him. "Are you all right?"

Zadkiel grinds his teeth as the haze around him begins to tip towards overwhelming. He doesn't have time for this, not now. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

Aziraphale continues to frown, but lets it go. "You've had coffee before, I assume?"

"Of course I've had coffee. Not my first time Earth-side, after all." Zadkiel hadn't had much time to waste on food and drink during his previous assignments, but coffee and tea were so ubiquitous here they were impossible to avoid. He flips open the menu and recognizes… absolutely nothing. He groans internally. Humans and their obsession with needlessly complicating everything.

A shadow falls over their table. "Little late for Halloween, innit?"

Zadkiel squints up to find the waiter staring at him. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry," the waiter backpedals, "it's just, your eyes… those are contacts, aren't they?"

Zadkiel feels a stab of panic, and grabs one of the spoons off the table. He stares into the convex side, the rounded metal offering a distorted reflection of his eyes in the bright sunlight.

His golden yellow eyes.

 _Fucking_ Gabriel.

Zadkiel flicks his gaze around the cafe. Several other patrons are looking at him now too, and he fights to swallow the dread coiling inside him, tight as a spring. His senses are going haywire, the haze now hardening and becoming more insistent, like knife points under his skin. He can't freak out, not now.

The waiter is still staring, waiting for an answer.

"Uh, yeah, contacts," Zadkiel chokes out. "Right. Good one."

The waiter doesn't look particularly convinced, but what other explanation is there? That he's an angel sent by Heaven on a secret mission, wearing a human corporation that this bloody incompetent boss somehow _forgot_ to make sure was regulation issue? _Not now, not now, not now—_

Zadkiel resurfaces to Aziraphale finally intervening to order and send the waiter away. Then he folds his hands on the table and gives Zadkiel a searching look.

Zadkiel bristles under the scrutiny and hisses, "Enjoyed that, did you?"

The expression Aziraphale levels at him gives nothing away. "About your eyes? I thought you were aware."

"Aware? Why would I—humans don't have yellow eyes!"

"No, they don't," Aziraphale says slowly, like Zadkiel is especially dim. "But you're hardly the first angel to come to Earth with embellishments: metallic facial tattoos, bejeweled teeth, and," he gestures to Zadkiel, "unnatural colored eyes. I've sent several memos to Home Office about the narrowness of deviation in natural human appearance, but obviously no one is reading them. I think it's a matter of angels wanting to stand out as warriors for the Almighty. Or perhaps that they detest the thought of being mistaken for human."

"Wait," Zadkiel says. "You thought I came down with yellow eyes on purpose, because I'm, what… an arrogant prick?"

Aziraphale says nothing, but Zadkiel swears his lip twitches upwards a bit.

"Fantastic," Zadkiel grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, I didn't do it on purpose. Hard to blend in with humans when you don't even _look_ human."

"Quite."

"I didn't even think to check. Gabriel must have forgotten to make sure they were standard."

Aziraphale purses his lips. "I would hazard it wasn't a mistake on Gabriel's part. He may be conceited, but he's not careless. You could request he correct it, but that would most likely lead to… unpleasant consequences."

And isn't that the understatement of the millennia? Zadkiel huffs out a humorless laugh. Of course. Another one of Gabriel's punishments. He should have known.

Aziraphale continues to watch him, slowly drumming his fingers on the table. Zadkiel realizes with a jolt that this outing isn't so much an apology on Aziraphale's part, but rather a chance to see him in action. To gather more information, to study his opponent. Zadkiel's been on the opposite side of the table enough times to recognize that look. The cheeky bastard is practically interrogating him!

And, like an idiot, he walked right into it. Zadkiel's been so concerned with keeping his emotions and senses in check that he's failed to keep his guard up. How much has he already given away? He let that waiter get under his skin, let Gabriel get the better of him. Worse still, he obviously underestimated Aziraphale. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Zadkiel resists the urge to smack himself in the forehead. "You mentioned having place to start with the list?"

"Yes," Aziraphale says, finally breaking his gaze. He pulls the piece of paper out of his jacket and smoothes it on the table. It looks much more wrinkled than the last time Zadkiel saw it. "Powerful books on dark magic, like these, tend to be old, very old. Antiques. So, I thought we could start with that."

"What, no cursed recent best-sellers?"

"Oh, a few political autobiographies, some ill-informed BDSM erotica. Jeffrey Archer's latest."

Zadkiel just blinks at him.

"… Right. Anyway, there's a rare antiques dealer in the city, Madame Artus. She has a shop in Knightsbridge. She caters to a… seedier kind of clientele than myself, so she tends to have more underworld connections, as it were. The kind with too much money and an interest in the occult. If any of these books are in London, she will know."

"If she's an antiques dealer, isn't she your direct competitor? Why would she help you find the books instead of securing them for herself?"

"We do have a rivalry, but it's friendly, I assure you. Besides, I have a few rarities she's being trying to get her claws on for years. I may be able to lure her into a trade."

The waiter arrives with their drinks. He sets a tiny cup in front of Zadkiel, and what looks to be a small mountain of whipped cream in front of Aziraphale. Then he lingers, trying very hard to stare at Zadkiel without making it obvious. He fails miserably.

"That will be all, thank you," Aziraphale says, dismissing him with a small smile. The waiter reluctantly scurries away.

Zadkiel frowns down at his drink. "You ordered for me."

"Yes. You seemed a bit preoccupied." Aziraphale gestures at Zadkiel's cup with his spoon. "It's called an espresso. It should be somewhat similar to the coffee you had the last time you were on Earth."

Zadkiel continues to stare into his cup. The dark, slightly foamy liquid does indeed look familiar. But his mind is stuck on Aziraphale's courteousness. Even while trying his level best to turn the tables, Aziraphale still took time to make sure Zadkiel had a drink of his own, to consider what he might like, or at least recognize. It's such a small thing. But it's more kindness than Zadkiel has been shown in a long time, and he's at a loss on how to handle it. He's not sure he remembers how.

"You didn't have to do that," he finally says without looking up.

Aziraphale hums. "You're welcome. Are you feeling better?"

Zadkiel's eyes snap up. With surprise, he realizes he does. The world has faded into a soft background hum, and his senses along with it, at least for the moment. Is this part of Aziraphale's plan to suss him out? What is the angel playing at? But Aziraphale offers no further explanation, busy carving the perfect spoonful from his whipped concoction with the same care he shows his books.

Zadkiel clears his throat. "What… what did you get?"

"An affogato," Aziraphale says. "It's a scoop of vanilla gelato with espresso and a bit of amaretto. It's absolutely marvelous."

"Looks more like desert than coffee."

"The best of both worlds," Aziraphale says with relish. He takes a bite and lets out a sigh of contentment, his eyes falling shut and a smile forming on his features. It seems to light him up from the inside, his expression so pure and genuine that it makes Zadkiel want to smile, too.

(And if Aziraphale's eyes flutter open and catch him in the act, Zadkiel will never admit it.)

"Drink up," Aziraphale says. "Go on, before it gets cold." 

Zadkiel brings the cup to his lips and takes a sip. The espresso is delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent so much time researching coffee for this chapter (and didn't end up using hardly any of it... why is that always the case?). The affogato is truly the Aziraphale of coffee-adjacent drinks. Traditionally, it doesn't involve whipped cream, but, again, Aziraphale. Also, [here](https://www.gocoffeego.com/professor-peaberry/history-of-coffee/1600) is a delightful timeline of the history of coffee, in case anyone is interested. 
> 
> As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. 
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr [here](http://www.hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


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